


The Love You Take

by andhow



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Assassin's Creed: Syndicate, Explicit Language, F/M, Gen, Reader-Insert, Sexual Tension, Victorian
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-14 22:46:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5761798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andhow/pseuds/andhow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Impressions

**Author's Note:**

> First work, just wanted to dip my toes in and see how it goes. And let's be honest, to write a little something for all of us who have massive crushes on Jacob Frye.

The morning you met was bright and clear. It had rained the night before, and the air carried that newly scrubbed sheen of hopefulness. The deluge had cleared the streets, mostly, of their grime, and carried the offending refuse, mostly, to the gutters. From your perch within the carriage, Southwark was almost pleasant.

As the carriage rounded onto a main thoroughfare, you give a sharp rap to the front to signal the driver. You hop onto the cobblestones and give your skirts a gentle shake. It was a Saturday, still early yet, and the streets were quiet and sluggish. The foundry furnaces lay dormant, and the shops were shut. You glance down at the poster you’ve been clutching to your chest, and walk determinedly to the mouth of the adjoining alleyway. With a bit of adhesive, you affix the stiff paper to the brick, smoothing out the ripples with your palm. You step back to admire your work, absently rubbing off the residual ink from your hand. The carriage driver nods approvingly, and you walk back towards him, asking “where to next?”

 

 Jacob knew at once that he’d made a terrible mistake. The intelligence from Greenie’s urchins had been that only a handful Blighters were stationed at their southern stronghold on the Thames. A reinforcing pint beforehand seemed like an excellent notion. Who was he to deny his Rooks a round of moral-boosting ale? Or a keg even, while they were at it. It was only until he clambered onto the warehouse’s roof that he felt himself swaying like a reed at its edge. Maybe he _had_ had a few too many for active duty.

He made to turn and find a way to clamber down, not trusting his aim with the grappling hook, but then a watcher had spotted him, and he had to gracelessly quiet her, more with the brute force of his fall than with any artistry of his blade. And then he found himself in direct line of sight with a lookout, and while running pell-mell after him managed to barrel straight into their leader. If a group of Rooks hadn’t been passing by, he would have been in serious trouble. The whole situation had devolved into all out gang warfare. It was only natural that he should take them all out to his favorite pub afterwards to celebrate. Really, now that he thought about it, the whole evening had turned out rather well.

It was an early May morning and he let his eyes rest for a moment as the first warm splinters of sun danced through the laundry lines to the alleyway below. He had bid his comrades-in-arms goodnight at the pub, and set a leisurely course for the train station. The whiskey smoothed out the edges of everything he saw, making the squat brick homes lovely and quaint, his sore knuckles and scratched up hands a token of his bravery rather than the idiotic irresponsibility he knew Evie would see them as. “Sod, Evie” he said to the cobblestones. “Sod, Evie!” He called up to the laundry lines. It felt good to say so, and he sauntered towards the main drag with a decided swagger in his step. Maybe he could scrounge up something freshly baked before he caught the train, he wondered. But first, the most intriguing poster had caught his eye…

It was of a boy at the helm of a great long ship. In one hand he held a great curved sword aloft, and the other pointed towards whatever lay ahead. There was even a captain’s hat perched jauntily on his head. Jacob had always wanted to be a pirate. In their childhood games he made Evie play as the British Navy, while he leaped about the yard and tried to plunder the tray of teacakes under her dutiful watch. It wasn’t too late for Jacob the sea captain. After the Rooks took London they would take on the East India Company, Jacob mused. Yes, this poster was just the thing to liven up the train.

He had just begun to peel its corners from the wall when a shout broke his concentration.

“Oi, you there!”

Jacob swung about, nearly tripping on his heel. There was a carriage parked on the curb, with a most agitated driver, and the loveliest girl he had ever seen advancing on him with a furrowed brow.

“Excuse me sir, but what do you think you’re doing?”

“The poster,” he gestured stupidly towards it, “I like it.”

“Oh, well.” She didn’t seem prepared for this answer of his. “Thank you, but it’s mine.”

“Then why did you leave it here?”

“It’s for my book.” Jacob glanced back at the poster, and sure enough, in bold cursive above the vessel were the words: “Coming soon! A bold new tale, Hawthorne’s Trials at Sea, by Edmund Firth.” Feeling foolish for missing such an obvious detail, Jacob released his grip on the print.

“But you can’t be this Edmund Firth person,” he asked aghast, taking her in.

Her dress was soft cotton; the color of freshly poured cream, and her hair was swept up behind her with a brightly color ribbon, leaving a few loose strands to gently frame her face.

“No,” she laughed despite herself, her eyes crinkling in amusement. “No, you’ve caught me. But it’s the only way my publisher would distribute the manuscript. The other option they gave me was: Sir Alfred Pennyworth.”

Jacob snorted and wrinkled his nose.

“Ghastly, right?”

“I think you make a fine Edmund Firth, Miss…?” He leaned in, unconsciously taking a step forward.

“I’ll tell you my name, if you promise to stop tearing down my posters, Mr…?”

“Frye. Jacob Frye.” He stuck his hand out with boyish enthusiasm, and she gave it a firm shake. “I give you my word, as an aspiring sea captain, that your posters are safe from me.” She laughed, tossing her head back in mirth, and Jacob thrilled. She then told him her name in the same fashion.

“But why in blazes are you out here putting these up by yourself?”

“It was part of the deal.”

“What deal?”

“The publishing deal.”

“Those cheap tossers! What’s London crawling with urchins for, anyway?”

“Well, apparently not to advertise books written by women. They didn’t want ‘unnecessary expenses,’ was how they put it.”

“So you’re paying for these out of pocket?”

Her mouth thinned and she nodded slowly. Jacob had a terrible fear that she was about to cry.

“Well,” Jacob lifted an arm to scratch the back his head. “I feel like a right brute now, don’t I? Here, give me the rest of these, and I’ll have my boys put them up for you.”

“Your boys?” She was smiling again, to his relief. “Is this your fleet of urchins?”

“I’m an entrepreneur,” Jacob answered smoothly.

“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Frye.”

“Please, Mr. Firth, it’s the least I can do.” She tilted her head a bit as she gazed up at him, taking a moment to decide.

“All right,” she handed him the stack in her hand. “Thank you, really. You’ve no idea the trouble you’ve saved me.”

Jacob, feeling charming and gallant, stepped one foot back and swept his arm before him in an exaggerated bow. As her carriage pulled away, he stood rooted there; trying to trace the face of the only girl he’d ever met who looked like she was blooming.

 

You manage to make it home before your absence is noticed and hurry up to your room on the top floor. From the kitchens below you can hear the sounds of breakfast being started. You throw yourself on your bed and let yourself sigh as you conjure up the scene you just left.

“Jacob Frye,” you say the name to yourself.

When you first saw him in the shadow of the alleyway you thought he was another drunken brute, making his way home after the pub shut. His stubble-rung jaw and bruised hands gave him the look of a street fighter, and you were sure there was a touch of whiskey on his breath. But there had been such warmth in his eyes, such admiration and care, as if he thought you were a set of fine china that he was afraid might shatter if not treated with kindness. And that final bow, so charmingly overdone, had made you blush so fiercely you had to leap into the carriage to conceal what a powerful affect it had on you.

“Jacob,” you try the name out again, slowly this time, savoring the syllables. You try to rein your thoughts in. He’s just a silly boy, you think. A silly boy with those broad shoulders, and chiseled jaw, and that rakish grin… You punch the pillow in frustration. A drunken brute, you repeat to yourself. But you contest that he can’t be complete rubbish as a person, seeing as he just agreed to paper London in your advertisements. With another sigh, you try to ease yourself into a nap, thinking as you fall asleep that this can’t be the last you’ve seen of Jacob Frye.


	2. Fitful Starts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our brave hero tries to sleep in, and Evie is very uncooperative.

Jacob rounded the block with quick steps. He was going straight back to the Rooks! They could have these up before noon. No, wait, that wasn’t right. Jacob paused, grinning, as memories of their reverie the night before flooded him. A familiar dull ache began to form at the base of his skull. Who the devil would be up this early? He rubbed his jaw absently as he paced. The urchins, of course! He would go straight to Babylon Alley with these. With a triumphant shout, Jacob leaped into the driver’s seat of a loitering growler.

Just as he predicted, the alley was bustling at that hour. The children had completed their rounds for the morning, patrolling the streets with bundles of watercress held high. It was easy to spot Clara in the center of the group, divvying up rolls with exactitude.

“Mr. Frye, what brings you to Babylon Alley?”

“Here,” he thrust one of the flyers at her, “I need you to put these up on every street corner in London.” She took the poster and studied it carefully, a group of children forming behind her. They began whispering importantly to each other. Jacob felt like Gulliver amongst the Lilliputians.

“Every street corner?” One of the scrawnier boys in the back asked. Jacob thought for a moment.

“Just a minute,” Clara interrupted before Jacob could answer. “We like the illustration, and we would like to know more about Hawthorne and his adventures, but first you have to make it worth our while.”

“All right,” he sighed and removed a coin from his pocket, holding it aloft for them to see. “One for each who helps.”

Clara crossed her arms against her chest and began to tap her foot on the cobblestones. The tap reminded Jacob of his headache, which was beginning to assert itself. The many beers from the night before had begun to leave a stale taste in the back of his mouth, and he wished desperately for a cup of coffee.

“Clara, why don’t you make this easier on both of us and just tell me what you want.”

“A piece for each flyer.”

“A piece for each dozen.”

“We want to read the book, too.”

“You’re relentless. Fine, and a book too.”

“But what if we all want to read it at the same time?” asked a freckled girl by his left knee. Jacob pinched the bridge of his nose.

“All right,” he threw his hands out in exasperation, “a piece for a dozen posters, and a book for each child who puts them up. Now do we have a deal?”

“Yes,” Clara assented primly. “We have a deal.”

“You’re going to run Parliament one day,” he teased as he handed Clara the stack of posters. Though she would try to hide her smile, Clara hadn’t yet mastered a convincing poker face. “I want those everywhere.”

“These aren’t enough if you want them everywhere,” the same freckled girl rejoined.

“Here, give me one back and I’ll have copies made.”

“Now that our terms our settled Mr. Frye, if you don’t mind we have important logistical matters to discuss.”

“By all means,” Jacob intoned smoothly and saluted the assembled children as he sauntered towards his carriage.            

 

It was noon by the time Evie had finished with her morning rounds at Lambeth Asylum. Ever since Clara had fallen ill, she had made it a priority to visit Ms. Nightengale every week to assure that the tentative supply lines they had established were still running smoothly. She had spent the past hour bent over the ledgers of the hospital’s stock room, assessing that each shipment had indeed arrived and come from a legitimate merchant. Stifling a yawn, she arched her back in a languid stretch.

It rankled her to no end that Jacob still took no responsibility for his actions. It was as if her brother persisted in thinking that his actions took place in a vacuum, immune from one of the basic principles of physics: for each action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. Hadn’t he absorbed any of their father’s teachings? Why did he carry on so? Their old mentor, George, had always warned of Jacob’s recklessness, but the stakes had never been as high in Crawley. She had never had to worry about him in the ways she found herself doing so now.

Evie penned a brief summation of her findings, and distractedly handed it to the assisting nurse with a brief goodbye. Jacob’s scorn for reconnaissance had created this mess, and naturally he was absent any time she or Henry- Mr. Green- she corrected herself, set out to tidy it. The thought of the assassination made her tense with frustration, and as she briskly walked to the train station she had to work at unclenching her jaw.

She felt with an unshakeable conviction that none of this would have happened were their father still with them. What wrenched her gut was the thought that it was a failure on her part that she could not channel him now and conceive of a solution. Surely, if she had only been a more attentive student, the way to mend their growing rift would come to her. Their father had left behind many notebooks, the most recent of which lay in a crate tucked carefully beneath the bed at the train hideout. Neither of them had touched it, but both felt comforted by it’s presence. Surely it was time to peruse it. There must be some bit of wisdom tucked in its pages that would guide her through this tangle.

It was with renewed conviction that Evie leapt gracefully aboard the train and strode to the front car.

Jacob’s muddied boots and overcoat lay strewn about the floor. “Honestly,” she muttered, kicking the boots beneath the desk and draping the coat across the chair. Evie pulled back the red curtain with a sharp snap. Of course, there was her brother dearest, sprawled out in bed fully clothed snoring loud enough to rival the engine. With a disgusted sigh, Evie left him to doze out the rest of the afternoon. She had spent enough of her morning tending to Jacob’s problems. She was going to seek out Mr. Green, and update him on her progress at Lambeth that morning.

 

Jacob awoke to the peculiar sensation that needles were pricking his eyeballs. He didn’t need to open them to know that his sister would be standing before him.

“Sod off, Evie,” he grumbled into his pillow.

“What have you done with the children of Babylon Alley?” She demanded.

“Sod. Off.” Jacob rolled onto his side so that his back was to her.

“Mr. Green and I went to recruit for a reconnaissance mission and Clara said that all of the children were running around putting up posters for you.”

He grunted dismissively.

“Jacob.”

“Sod-“

“Jacob!” She prodded him on the shoulder. “What posters?”

“Top secret. Can’t say a word,” he rolled back and squinted up at her.

“Those children aren’t at your beck and call, you know. This had better be important.”

“Very,” Jacob rasped.

“A month ago many of them, including Clara, were at death’s door. And what’s this about buying them books?”

“Don’t you want the children to read, Evie?”

“Don’t turn this around. I’m not leaving till you tell me what this is about.”

“Fine,” he grumbled and turned back towards the wall with a decisive flop.

“Jacob!”

Evie mercilessly threw open the shades, letting the midday light stream through the car.

“God, I’ve been beset by devilish women all morning.” With one hand covering his eyes, Jacob raised himself to a half-seated position.

“Which women?”

“Can’t a guy catch a brake?” He gestured for the glass of water on the end table. Evie impatiently thrust it into his waiting hand. She noted the dirt beneath his nails, the scuff-marks on his hands, and the lingering soot streaking his palms.

“You’re filthy.” Jacob winced as he rose to a seated position, and winked baldly at her. Evie scoffed and rolled her eyes. “You’re not charming either.”

“I thought you wanted to know what the posters were for.”

“You know what, I don’t care anymore. Whatever this is,” she flourished her hand, “have it done by Tuesday. And I don’t want any of the Assassin’s money going towards this pet project. This comes from the Rooks’ coffers.” And with that, Jacob was alone again.

He swung his legs to the floor and rested his elbows upon his knees, the glass cool between his palms. His trousers were ridged with wrinkles from being slept in, and his white oxford was starched stiff with his sweat. As much as he hated to concede it, maybe Evie did have a point. Jacob downed the glass in a single gulp and then let his head hang. The vision of the girl he met that morning returned to him as a pleasant dream does, first in vague sweeps of sensation, and then with a disarmingly clear burst of details.            

As Jacob lingered over the glow in her cheeks, or how her eyes were so quick and bright, he felt as though an electric current were wired from his sore feet to his grubby hands. He gave a mournful look back at the pillow, and then rose decisively. She had a problem that only he could solve for her. While he collected his vest from where he had tossed it, wedged between the armchair and the wall, he felt that this was what he liked about her. In a matter of minutes, he had transformed himself from a nuisance to an invaluable partner. Who else had given him such immediate trust? Rather than naïve, her actions struck him as being generously kind. If this was his chance to redeem himself in the eyes of the lovely sprite who had assailed him, then he was determined to astonish her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the sweet notes and kudos everyone. I've got a few more ideas, and will try to keep this going as a longer story. Cheers to anyone else snowed in this weekend!


End file.
